


By Slow Degrees

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Early Mornings, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: “The alarm stays set while she’s serving out her suspension.”





	By Slow Degrees

**Author's Note:**

> Something stupid to work through my own DST rage. Early Season 5. 

 

 

 

“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.” — Voltaire

* * *

 

The alarm stays set while she’s serving out her suspension. On her bedside table. On her phone. That’s who she is, even though she can’t remember the last time either one actually went off. The last time she hadn’t already snapped awake, feet on the floor, well before they’ve had a chance to. That’s who she is, too, so it’s a surprise to say the least.

The sudden, earlier than early buzz and rumble of something vibrating its way across a flat surface. A brief string of airy, unfamiliar notes punctuated by one sharp inhalation from the far reaches of his side of the bed. Followed by movement—a slither of sheets and blankets. An alien undulation of the mattress. It’s _confusing_. 

She opens her mouth to protest. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to remember how to make a fist. How to clutch the covers tight to her chin, but it’s an invasion already in progress. Fingers tangling in her hair and the warm, insistent weight of his body creeping over hers. 

“What?” she manages to murmur at last, and it’s the stupidest thing. His lips glide along her jaw and up her chin. His teeth nip at the skin of her shoulder while the backs of his nails drag their shivering way from the nape of her neck to the hollow of her throat. _What_ is the stupidest possible thing to say.

“Morning,” he sighs in her ear, and it might be an answer. It might be a greeting or a riddle or the world’s shortest poem. It might be anything, but it’s hard to tell when he’s propped on one elbow, looming above her so all she can see when her eyes finally sweep open is a lazy, cocky smile she should probably do something about. She probably, definitely, absolute should do something about a smile like that, but he’s skimming one palm along her ribs. He’s teasing the curve of her breast and the sharp crest of her hip with his thumb, and it’s kind of impossible to care.  

Kind of, but still she finds her own fingers tangling in _his_ hair. “Alarm.” She finds the strength at last to pull her mouth from the luxurious heat of his. The two syllables tumble out, so maybe she’s managed it. Maybe, for some stupid reason, she’s found the will to investigate what all this means. What, exactly, his intentions are when it’s earlier than early. “You set an alarm? _You?”_

That’s the heart of the mystery. _He_ set an alarm, and she’s incredulous. She’s perplexed and puzzled and half a dozen other polysyllabic things. That’s what she is, but he seems to be ignoring her. He seems to be utterly unconcerned with anything but the story his lips and hands and breath are writing on the canvas of her skin.

“Do you know?” he asks, and it might mean a hundred things for all she knows. For all she can tell when his knee is making its insistent way between her thighs. “Do you know what I thought the first time I kissed you?” 

_Kissed you  . . ._

The words reverberate all through her. Like she’s a taut string he’s plucked, and somehow she’s not tugging at his hair anymore. Somehow, one wrist is pinned high above her head, and her whole body is arching up to meet his. 

“Do you know, Kate?” 

“What?” she says again. Breathless this time. It’s all she can manage even though she’s eager and tingling with memory. With a burning question. _Which first time?_ “What did you . . .” 

“I thought—I _knew—_ “ He interrupts himself. A low moan in the back of his throat as he kisses her deeply.  “I _knew_ I could spend a thousand years just kissing you.” He punctuates each word with a kiss. Another  and another. He draws the declaration out. “Just. Kissing. You.” 

It thrills her. The words and how completely unabashed he is in uttering them. It makes her blood rush and her heart pound. It makes her sink into the mattress one second, then press herself hard against him the next.

“A thousand years.” It makes her laugh, too. A warm, silvery sound she almost doesn’t recognize. “So you set an alarm?” 

“Mmmm,” he nods into the crook of her shoulder. He teases her skin with the rough drag of his morning beard.  “You’re a busy woman, Detective.” He draws back to sweep a hungry look down the length of her body.  “Have to make time.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Schmoopy kissing: It's what's for breakfast.


End file.
